Verses and Versions: Three Centuries of Russian Poetry Translated by Vladimir Nabokov Edited by Brian Boyd and Stanislav Shvabrin (Harcourt, 441 pp., $40) I. Vladimir Nabokov, who throughout his career cultivated his reputation as the most famous literary exile since Ovid, was recognized in his lifetime not only for his novels but also for his authority on Russian cultural and aesthetic matters. He gave packed lectures extolling Tolstoy and annihilating Dostoevsky, and published dozens of translations of Russian verse.


There are a number of shallow streams In the city, but only the one river. Only the one river, but different Poems give it different names.For some it's Lethe, river of oblivion; For others, it's Time itself, that flows Through all poems, that laps At the banks of words, slowly eroding.Some name it after a childhood Brook--a current that moved Alongside their own, As if they both emerged From the same source.Others dub it something Exotic, as if to say: you are a river I've never seen, except in imagination: You are the color of my longing, Which is deep and pure. By Gregory Orr

A feeling of something indefinable but not right. Not comfortable. A rushing. Sometimes I have to stop And sort out time at cyberspeed.   It’s supposed to arrive “between 2 and 3 in the morning.” The very specificity of the promise makes me disbelieve. If it ever arrives, I’ll say, Good, that’s over. That little irritating suspense.   The hollowing wait. The stupid want For good news. No bad. What more can one ask for? One day more over in the prison Of childhood. The runaway fantasies.   The retreat into the open mind, That mysterious conceptual nothing. Distant fireworks.


A New Head

Tyrannosaurus Rex Versus the Corduroy Kid By Simon Armitage (Knopf, 80 pp., $25) THE ENGLISH POET Simon Armitage, born in the north of England in 1963, took degrees in two fields: geography—reflected in his ecological poems—and psychology—visible in his poems of ordinary life. He worked for six years as a Probation Officer, following in his father’s footsteps, and then began to earn his living as a freelance writer. Armitage’s poems, funny and savage, reveal unlovely aspects of modern life, but they also glitter with comedy.



On the day I graduated from saltines to toast, and could manage a few laps around the bedroom with the two transparent tubes, and needles stuck into my arterial veins, my mother showed up at the door demanding I take my wig off so she could see what I looked like now that my hair had all fallen out, every eyelash curl, every inch of peach fuzz, gone, her face cocked in the way that Parkinson's had set it like a wind up toy missing a part, her pants too short, and socks lewdly unmatched, her turquoise eyes, sparkling, as she gripped the banister, sturdying herself, leaning on her avuncular cane


2666 By Roberto Bolano Translated by Natasha Wimmer (Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 912 pp., $30) WELL, IT’S not dead yet. The modernist idea, which is really a Romantic idea, that the truest art comes from the margins, from the social depths, from revolt and disgust and dispossession, from endless cigarettes and a single worn overcoat, is still, in this age of MFA’s and faculty appointments, when Pound’s “make it new” long ago became Podhoretz’s “making it”—is still, still, however improbably alive.


Seeing and Believing

Saving Darwin: How to be a Christian and Believe in Evolution By Karl W. Giberson (HarperOne, 248 pp., $24.95) Only A Theory: Evolution and the Battle for America's Soul By Kenneth R. Miller(Viking, 244 pp., $25.95) I. Charles Darwin was born on February 12, 1809--the same day as Abraham Lincoln--and published his magnum opus, On the Origin of Species, fifty years later.


The Public

The no one of itis everywhere.It is a high rise thatis itself a wallof windows allbut one of whichhalf way up is dark,rising above the lockedgate against whicha stray page of the day'sdisasters has beenblown flat, tremblingagainst the ironbars as if tryingto pass through orover them, like afugitive the dogsare closing in on,wanting in, wantingfor God's sake someoneto take him in, as ifthat sole blue lightabove were safety,except it isn'tsafety, is it,it's the newson television, the samenews of the sameday--it is newscalling out to newsas pixel to printto pixel over circuitsand atonal air wayst


Not even the buxom blond in a G-string sitting at the beach in Szigligetcan cure me of my melancholy this stifling day, not even her breastsor her hidden triangulated vulva, not the oiled and salted skin she has prepared so carefully, not her breath of mint, not her practiced fingersor insatiable nose, not even the well-intentioned syllables of Hungarianshe sends my way, or her beckoning thighs, no, there is nothing at all I am willing to submit myself to this unenraptured dusk, I am lonelyas a dwarf at a basketball game, desireless as a pope, and I can only sayto those who have come here to b


Mister Lucky

Malcolm Gladwell's fairy tales.